


There is no, "Hello, Dean."

by Noth_lit_8



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Destiel - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 12, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 10:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noth_lit_8/pseuds/Noth_lit_8
Summary: There is a Castiel in the alternative universe where Dean and Sam were never born, and he is not Dean's angel, but they need each other with a fervor neither can explain.Based off of something Misha suggested about a Castiel in the AU appearing in season 13.AKA, season 13 my way.Title is not finalized yet. Biweekly updates.





	There is no, "Hello, Dean."

After rapping on Dean’s door half a dozen times and getting no response, Sam sighs and rests his forehead against the faded woodwork. He hadn’t felt this alone since Dean had last died, even though his brother was still within the same walls as him. Sam presses his eyes shut and inhales deeply before letting out in a desperate plea through the wood for Dean to come out for some coffee or breakfast.

On the other side of the door, Dean is doing nothing. He had been drinking, which Sam would realize soon when he would find most of the beers missing from the fridge. But now Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed, not lying down, as every time he did, he would try agonizingly to sleep, to no avail. Thoughts of failure plagued him at all hours. Failure to keep his mother safe, failure to attain her unconditional love and to make up for the time they missed together. Failure to attain the nephilim, to keep him out of harm’s way and out of way of doing harm.

Failure to save Cas. Failure to find a way to bring him back. Failure to protect his stubborn, confused angel safe in the first place. His angels. Days huddled around dusty book covers and yellowing, crispy pages with Sam’s stares endlessly, wordlessly communicating, “I’m so sorry,” gave way to absolutely nothing that would help bring Cas back. Eventually, the repetition of textual affirmations that Castiel was, in fact, gone for good, drove Dean into solitude. Dean’s hand drifts to the mark on his arm, which inexplicably began to redden and swell more each day since Cas’s death. It was one of the few things he noticed anymore.

Despite the late morning and the sun shly hinting its presence through the closed curtains, Dean let his back fall to the bed. Exhaustion occupied every corner of his soul. He was drained from his mind through every bone in his body. With his legs still dangling off the edge of the mattress, Dean closes his eyes and focuses on nothing but the prickling sensation on his upper arm, blessed sleep finally embracing him.

~

Dean is no stranger to nightmares. From the scene of losing his mother replayed through slumber during childhood, to dreams of losing Sammy to demons’ blood or the devil himself, Dean had slept through some wild nights. However, the occasional peaceful storyline would float to him through REM slumbers, and when he would wake the next morning, he always made sure to stay in bed just a bit longer than necessary, reveling in the lingering feeling of whatever he dreamt. 

The setting he finds himself in is familiar. Dean stands on the edge of a pier with a cheap fishing rod cast out to the distance, gentle waves of green lapping at the pier’s posts below him. The sky is a muted blue with a spatter of clouds. He is completely alone, which is something that Dean usually despises being, but right now, he is content. But only right now.

“Hello, Dean,” the company to his right calls. Dean jerks his head as soon as the sound passes by his ear. This wasn’t part of his dream. Tendrils of his logic and conscious thought creep into the scene, reminding him the only time this dream had ever been disrupted was when Cas approached him here. His chest tightened because the figure to his right was not Cas, but rather just some maybe-almost-teenaged boy, by the looks of his lanky, awkward build and the squeaky way he introduced himself. The boy was not an incarnation of a young Sammy or himself. His eyes were a deep brown and vaguely reminded him of someone else, though he couldn’t be sure who.

This is just a dream, Dean reminds himself. This kid is just some figment of his imagination, and his eyes are too. He spread his arms to his sides and furrowed his brows at the kid. “Can I help you,” he intones, letting a hint of impatience and unhappiness seep through. The boy doesn’t respond, instead patting the chair (did it appear just now? Or had Dean not noticed it?) next to him. Dean huffed and took a seat, meeting the kids glance and inhaling sharply as it hit him who was sitting beside him.

The nephilim blinked, unfazed at Dean, who had stood up and now had a gun pointed at the nephilim. The young boy raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, but his eyes showed stubbornness, not defeat. Dean contemplated that both the rich, brown marble eyes and the expression he wore remarkably mimicked those of his mother. The boy went to stand, but when Dean took a heated step forwards, he sat back down. 

“Dean,” the nephilim started, “to answer your question, yes, you can help me. And I can help you, as well.” The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched upwards because how could a child help him, and why would the spawn of Satan want to help him. 

He cleared his throat. “Listen, um, kid-”

“My mother named me Jack,” the child interrupted. 

Dean raised his eyebrows, not sure if the action was a result of surprise that the kid knew his name at all, or surprise that he even cared. “Okay, well,” Dean began again, “Jack. I hate to say this because I know that you just came into existence and all that,” he paused, selecting his next words carefully. “Your dad and I aren’t weren’t exactly-”

“Yeah, yeah, you hated each other and all that. I can feel it in my blood. I’m not supposed to want to talk to you. I’m supposed to want to grab you and choke you with my pre-pubescent hands, rip you apart, and scatter your atoms so far across the universe that no one could ever put you back together again. I sense you caused my father great pain,” Jack stated blatantly, cocking his head with his mouth in a tight line.

Taken aback by the nephilim’s brashness, Dean shook his head slightly. “Yeah. I did. But the pain was mutual.”

The child nodded like he already knew this. “It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that more than I want to kill you, I want to be by your side. I need your help.” As Dean began to open his mouth to ask him to elaborate, Jack finished, “I need Castiel. And I get to him through you. It’s written on you.”

Dean was stunned into silence. Cas was supposed to raise Jack. It was Kelly’s wish. And now this person-thing that just started existing has no one to teach it right from wrong. He had several questions, but the one he managed to stammer out was brash. “You know Cas is dead, right?”

Jack nodded. “Our Cas is dead, yes. But I have an alternative solution, and I believe it will satisfy both you and I.” Not liking the sound of that, Dean remained silent until the nephilim sighed and shrugged, reminding Dean of a child who needed an adult to guide them. Well, this was a child, Dean guessed, but not your average child. How are you supposed to treat an angel-human hybrid child? Cas would have known. Interrupting his thoughts, Jack finally rose from his chair, walking up to Dean and clearly unafraid of the simple gun he was still white-knuckling. “I need Castiel, Dean. I need him, and you need him too. And if you meet me at the barn, we can get to him together.”

Every instinct of Dean’s was telling him this was a horrible idea. And yet, the idea of seeing Cas again, of telling him...what did he want to tell him? There were so many things he should have told his angel. He should have understood his mortality and taken advantage of all the time they had together. Dean couldn’t inhale a proper breath. Some sort of lump had formed in his throat, blocking the way of oxygen. So he just nodded. He nodded yes to seeing his angel.

Another one of his questions snapped back into his mind. “Wait, what did you mean by, ‘It’s written on-”

Even when Dean’s eyes snapped open and he could see every crevice in the unpainted ceiling above him, the lump was still there.

**Author's Note:**

> Serious love to you for reading my work. Thank you so much. Please leave a comment with questions, predictions, or statements if it pleases you. There are many more chapters to come. I will do my best to keep you on edge and not to disappoint.


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